Arkham Asylum
by hathanhate
Summary: He doesn't know why the silence upsets them. He likes the quiet. The silence is comfortable and safe. Maybe they don't like it like he does? But that's ok. He doesn't really like the doctors anyways. But the silence upsets the bat and the clown too, and he does like them. Oh well. ON HOLD
1. Chapter 1

So this is the introduction. Sorta. It's the poem I felt the need to write that inspired me to write the story in the first place.

Before anyone says anything, no, the words are not meant to rhyme, the poem is meant more about expression and the way the main character of this fic sees the world than on the words themselves sounding pretty when you read it.

This fic is just an experiment on my part to integrate an OC character of mine into the Batman world. I make no promises about the story itself once we get started except to say that there will only be the one OC, and the rest will all be Batman characters.

Not everything will be based on the movies, in fact, a lot of this will come from the Batman: The Animated Series that I grew up on as a child. I have actually yet to see the third movie at all so…

The chapters will be short, and I don't know how often I will update.

This introduction is just the Poem, nothing else. I'll post the first chapter in a few days.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

Arkham Asylum

Rooms made of steel bars

Windows where they watch

Accusing eyes looking down

Like predators at prey

A bed bolted down

White and cold like snow

Chains to hold and trap

Wet with blood and tears

Jackets not for warmth

Held tight across pale skin

Arms bound to body

Stuck against hard ribs

Doctors in white coats

Apathetic and cruel

Not here to heal sick

But contain broken monsters

Needles glint in bright light

Filled with poison

Made to stop action

But not silence voices

Screams no one hears

Invisible claws and teeth

Whispers in the walls

A cage of the mind

There is a man with a coin

One side normal

One side not

A friend of Lady Chance

A woman with a rose

A lover of the plants

Framed by auburn locks

And vengeful green eyes

A scarecrow without a field

Muttering in the night

Tinkering with chemicals

Making men scream

A sphinx of constant riddles

Playing with puzzles

Asking strange questions

Never giving answers

A lady of feline nature

Who purrs when happy

A lover of shine and sparkle

Thieving and thriving

A penguin in black

With gentlemanly words

Speaking of guns and jewels

And dancing tunelessly

A blue man

With cold skin

An icy heart

Complaining of heat

A talking crocodile

With snapping jaws

Seeking the taste of flesh

Roaring in hunger

A sweet Harlequin

Pretty and blonde

Painted red and black

With giggles and grins

An every-laughing clown

Like a wild dog off chains

Made of purple and green

And scarred yellow smiles

Sometimes a bat

Hidden in shadows

With a rough voice

And harsh fists

And me

Shattered and broken

Hiding in darkness

Waiting for nothing

Eyes to watch

Invisible to theirs

Ears to hear secrets

But no voice to tell them

I watch

I listen

In my silence

I wait unseen

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

And there we have it.

Done for now.

-Hathan


	2. Chapter 2

The chapters of this will most likely be short, and with unknown lengths of time between updates. I don't even know if I will ever finish this story. Consider it an experiment on my part. For now it shall be rated T. If I continue to a certain point it may become M rated, and if by fanfictiondotnet standards it goes beyond M (I.E. extensive gore or sex scenes) then I will place a warning in the summary and at the beginning of the chapters that this is rated MA.

I only own OCs. Not Batman or the Joker or anything you recognize.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker is the first to notice him.

That first time, it's nothing more than a semi-interested glance, because, well, it's the first time the bat has managed to throw him in Arkham and he's been casting semi-interested glances at everyone. There are a few interesting characters in here aside from himself, like that pretty redhead who obsesses over plants, and that scarecrow fellow who loves making people scream.

The person is less a person and more a big blob of matted graying hair. The hair is long and everywhere and looks like it hasn't been washed in years. There's dirt and grime and bits of leaves and twigs and things in it. It covers the man's? Woman's? Form entirely from view. He's never seen the strange hair-blob-person before, but he assumes from the grayish color of the hair that the likely insane patient is simply very old and hasn't been out of Arkham in a long time.

Once this assumption has been made his eyes move elsewhere and he skips away to torment the orderlies because, really, how can he not? They make it so much fun with how downright terrified of him they are.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The next time he bumps into the hair-blob, quite literally, he offers more than a passing glance.

It's maybe his third time in Arkham and he's been assigned a new doctor. A sweet, innocent little thing with blonde hair. He can taste the madness in her and thinks this might be worth staying a little longer at Arkham than he normally would. After all, messing with people for a few laughs is what he does best, aside from explosions, and if he can even get a quick fuck or two out of it , well then, why not?

He's spinning around in the lunchroom like he's dancing with an invisible partner when he feels himself crash into someone. He wobbles but doesn't fall, though from the sound of a thump and a crashing tray accompanied by the splat of that muck they serve here hitting the ground; he knows whoever he has hit is not so lucky.

He is mildly surprised to see the elderly-hair-blob-person and mockingly offers a hand. Everyone in this place is terrified of him, including the other patients, and so he doesn't think for a second that the hair-person-creature will take it. So imagine his shock when a too-pale hand with long, bony, pianist-fingers wraps gently around his own.

He pauses only a moment before smirking in dark amusement and pulling the thing to it's feet. The hair-person's grip is gentle, almost fragile, like they're weak. He doesn't release the hand right away and instead chooses to study it a moment. His frightening grin turns into a rare frown at the odd sight.

The pale, nearly white, skin is thin and soft like old parchment and stretched tight over the bones. This person is much much too skinny, almost as though they don't eat and he wonders at that. He is not worried; the Joker doesn't worry about anyone but himself, he is merely curious. After all, the doctors here go through an awful lot of trouble to keep them all physically healthy, and so the sight of someone so clearly unhealthily thin is a little unusual.

That is not what makes him frown though. Rather it is the look of the skin. While covered in dirt and bits of what might be food or maybe blood, and having torn and too-long nails, the skin is too smooth. There are no wrinkles, no age spots, no moles. It is smooth and silky and pure. It is the skin of someone young, their thirties at the absolute most, not someone old. It makes the mass of grayish hair confusing. After all, what kind of young person has grey hair?

He grins again though, tossing the thoughts to the side and notes with interest that the oddly-young-hair-blob's frail grip never falters. This being, weird as it is, does not fear him, and that only make's his smile wider; stretched even more by the scars on either side of his lips. He absently runs his tongue along them as he lets the hair-blob pull away and wander off.

He doesn't notice that the room has fallen silent, everyone having stared at the strange occurrence with open-faced horror. They cower from his bemused grin but he oblivious to them. His eyes are on the grey-hair-thing as it wanders away, out of the room and possibly back to it's cell.

_How interesting…_

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The third time, is when he is breaking out of Arkham for what must be the fifth or sixth time; he's no longer keeping track.

His little Harley had made friends with the plant-chick and the redhead is busting them out because of it. There are these dark green vines swirling everywhere, latching onto anyone and everyone and wrapping taut around their necks until they snap. It is almost sentient. Maybe it is sentient. But it never attacks him or Harley or a few of the others he knows for a fact Ivy has injected with that serum of hers that tells the plants they're friends.

He also knows for a fact that hair-blob is not among those she has injected. Yet he can see the boy? Girl? Man? Woman? Not too far from him with the vines twirling and wrapping around their feet but not attacking them. It's almost like they're curious about the person or simply saying hello. A pale hand reaches out of the hair-blob and pats one of them gently in response to this.

Joker sees that though the hand shakes slightly in weakness, it does not shake in fear. In a split moment of decision, fueled by curiosity and the intrigue of a new puzzle, he rushes over and stand in front of the blob to speak to it.

"Wanna get outta here sweetheart?"

It moves slightly, in what feels like looking up at him (it is rather short) and then bobs in what appears to be a nod. With a pleased grin he picks it up and swings it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, or a bag of money, and takes off running towards where the vines are coming from.

The hair-blob doesn't even tense and simply let's itself be carted off like this is a perfectly-normal-everyday-occurrence; and perhaps, in the world of a madman, it is.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

And there we are. You can see this as the first chapter or an introduction, even though the poem was meant to be the introduction. All the same…

If I continue then I warn you that I'm taking some liberties with these characters. In most cases they will be combined versions of their Dark Night movie counterparts and their Batman The Animated Series versions. In some cases I may even change them completely.

The Joker seeming a bit more sane in this than he is typically depicted is one example. He may be bat-shit crazy in some cases or almost normal in others. It just depends on my mood when I write and what the scene is.

To be clear, the hair-blob is not really a hair-blob. It is a person whose gender will be revealed, and who, after some proper care, cleaning, and cutting, will no longer be described as a hair-blob.

Regardless. Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm not making anymore disclaimers. There was one in Chapter One, and that combined with the fact that this story is being posted on a fanfiction website in the first place should be enough to prove I don't own this.

This chapter will be like the last chapter, but from Batman's POV. Next chapter marks the true beginning of the story.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

There isn't much that escapes Batman's notice.

The first time the person catches his eye, he's dragging two-face in.

The cops are always trying to catch him, but for whatever reason, the doctors at Arkham have never tried to turn him in, and often make mentions to him about important patients, or even request for him to catch certain people. He knows that some of them think he's as loony as the people he locks up, but they also respect him.

Two-face is unconscious, and he helps the orderlies carry the man to his cell. The doctor in charge of the man obsessed with fate thanks him, and rather than disappear as he often does when speaking to the commissioner, he walks down the hallway to walk out the door.

Those who work at Arkham are accustomed to seeing him, and don't give him a second glance as he wanders almost silently through the halls. He casts glances into the cells he passes, and connects those he sees with their names. He knows nearly every patient Arkham has, mostly because he put a good portion of them there.

There are a couple murderers, Ivy, a rapist, and…

It is a cell close to the end where he pauses. Within is what looks like a matted ball of grayish colored hair upon one of the tiny beds. It is only the bare feet peeking out from beneath it that lets him know it is actually a person in the cell. He frowns. It is not a patient he had every scene before. The person who looks more like a great mass of hair shifts, and though he can see no eyes beyond the hair he feels as though the person is looking at him.

He stays in place for a moment, as though meeting that gaze. But then the strange patient shifts and curls downward, appearing to lay down facing the wall away from him. He frowns, but continues on his doesn't have time to wonder about the mystery-patient, or why his hair has not been cut or cleaned as it should be, he has criminals to catch and a city to look after.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The second time, he is there because, once again, the Joker has escaped.

He is collecting evidence, and the doctors and staff leave him to it. Throughout his investigation, he finds himself in the art room. Only the best patients are allowed here, and the evidence only leads him here because the Joker had passed through it during his escape.

It was one of those rare escapes where, rather than something flashy, the Joker simply chose to slip away in the dead of night. There are a few patients, but he pays them no mind as he knows they would not be in here if they were prone to violence, and also because most of Arkham's patients fear him.

He is distracted by some hair he had found, when he feels a tugging on his cape, not unlike a child pulling on their parent's shirt for attention. He tenses, and turns quickly. He is mildly startled, though not visibly so, to find the mystery hairy patient from several weeks before with a gentle grip on the edge of his cape. They are both still for a moment before the patient drops his cape and lifts up a paper to him.

He takes it, and the patient takes a step back, moving out of his personal space and letting him relax marginally as he inspects the paper. His eyes widen at it. It is a drawing of himself, standing in the hallway in Arkham, no doubt a portrait of that day he first saw the patient.

It is remarkably well drawn, and impeccably detailed, and he is surprised that anyone mentally unstable would possess the clarity to draw something so clearly defined. He stares at it for a few moments before it occurs to him that the patient is still standing there.

He looks up at the person, only now conscious of the fact that he doesn't even know the patient's gender and he pauses.

"Thank you." He decides to say, and the mass of hair bobs in what he believes must be a nod before it turns away and wanders out of the room, no doubt heading back towards it's cell or the cafeteria. He looks at the drawing one more time, and carefully folds it up and places it within one of his many hidden pockets.

He goes back to his investigation, and pushes thought of the strange mystery patient to the back of his mind.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

It is a few weeks later and he is going through his equipment.

He is replacing some things and restocking others and he empties a pocket to find the drawing from a month before. He frowns, having forgotten about it, and realizes that he never did search into the records to find out who that patient was.

He sets the drawing to the side and doesn't pick it up again until he is done with his task. Then he lifts it gently and moves to the computer to hack into Arkham's system. It takes him a little while to find what he's looking for but eventually a picture pops up.

It is the same as what he saw, a blob of hair with no sign of a face and he frowns as he looks through the file. The patient has only a number and is named as John Doe. Clearly, not even Arkham knows who the patient is, and according to the notes, they are only aware of his gender because the doctors have viewed him choosing the male bathroom over the female one.

The file claims he has never spoken to them, but has a very mild demeanor and doesn't cause trouble. The doctor seems to have a soft spot for the patient though and makes a note that the patient sometimes draws pictures for him and the other staff. He seems to try to go outside as often as possible, and sometimes the guards allow him into the yard outside of his timeslot because they too seem to have taken a liking to him.

The only note of any violence is when they try to cut his hair. According to the doctor's notes he seemed to have a panic attack and would hit anyone who came near him with scissors. There is no note of him causing any real injury, as he seemed to be too weak to cause any damage, but the doctors chose to leave his hair be so as not to antagonize him.

There is also a note of the patient eating very little, and the doctor's belief that he may be malnourished and underweight, though he was unable to determine this fully as they don't know how much of his weight is his hair and how much is him.

His eyes narrow as he moves on and discovers that the file is incomplete. There is no records as to how the patient came to be sentenced to Arkham, and as he looks into the police database he finds no record of the him at all.

Before he can look further into this anomaly, an alarm sounds.

He looks up and begins typing furiously. It seems the Joker has escaped yet again. He knows it is already too late for him to stop him, even driving there now in the tumbler would do no good, and so he looks into the Arkham security system.

There is no sound, but he watched as Poison Ivy breaks into the facility with her plants and several criminals find their way out. He follows the Joker's movements, when suddenly the clown prince of crime stops and seems to be distracted by something. He taps into the different feeds and stares in mild shock at the very patient he was just researching.

The vines are not attacking him and he pats one gently. The Joker walks up to him and grins before saying something. After a bobbing nod from the John Doe, Joker lifts up the mass of hair and swings him over his shoulders; carrying him away with him as he makes his escape.

Batman rubs his forhead and glances down at the drawing still on his desk with a sigh.

Things have suddenly become so much more complicated.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

So there we are, Batman has also discovered out hair-blob, albeit after the Joker already has.

And the gender is revealed! Ha!

Anyways, that's all for now. Once again I feel compelled to tell you that this story is more or less just an experiment on my part and so it may or may not be abandoned at anytime.

There are at least a couple more chapters plan to write, but after that it's anybody's guess.


	4. Chapter 4

Here we are at chapter three.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker grinned down at his new… Minion? No, that wasn't right. Friend? He snorted. No. Not a friend. Companion? He hummed and nodded to himself. Yes, that would work.

The hair-blob dipped to the side a bit, as though the person beneath it had tilted their head at him. He copied the motion, mirroring the hair-blob-creature as it tilted to the other side as well. He chuckled again.

They had managed to get away easily enough, there having been neither hide nor hair of the bat, and had found themselves in a safehouse Ivy so conveniently procured for them before busting them out. A simple abandoned factory on the edge of town with a few smaller building surrounding it; one of which had a few skylights and had been converted into a greenhouse for Ivy's precious plants. The factory appeared to have been responsible for making shoes at one point and the whole area smelled like old leather.

The Joker had taken up residence in another of the smaller buildings, dragging his little furry puzzle with him and slamming the rusty metal door in Harley's face.

"I really think," He started, "that you could use a haircut." The hair-blob's form became very still, the pale little hands that peaked out clenching into fists. The hair-person made a wide shaking motion that he interpreted as it shaking it's head. He frowned, catching the first scent of fear off the figure. This little oddity wasn't afraid of him, a murdering sociopath, but it was afraid or getting it's hair cut?

"Please?" He asked. Begging wasn't his style, but for whatever reason, he didn't want to force his funny hair-blob. "I wanna see that face of yours though. Pretty please with sugar on top?" The hair-blob didn't shake it's head again, but the hands remained clenched in fists and it made no movement.

It jerked in a surprised flinch as he placed his hands on either side of it, squeezing a bit in a bastardized attempt at comfort. He wasn't so good at this kind of thing but he had seen some things on the television. "What's there to be afraid of?" The hair-blob remained tensed for a few moments and the Joker came to wonder if perhaps force _was_ necessary. With a rougher voice, he tried again, squeezing what he felt was shoulders beneath the hair tighter. "You do _realize_," He drew out the word with a growl, "that I will cut your hair whether you want me to or not?" The final word clicked slightly on his tongue and he offered a dark grin.

His smile grew wider when the hair-blob slumped in defeat and he let go. "Well then!" He spoke loudly, but his new little fascination didn't jump or flinch. He picked it up like before, and once again was left without resistance.

The little building was filled mostly with metal and tables not unlike a science classroom. There was a tub of sorts in the corner that had no nozzle, but a drain. There was a hose hooked up outside and it was long enough for him to drag it inside to use it; knowing already that (who had been staying here with Ivy) had set up the plumbing to work properly. He set the hair-blob down next to the low tub, which only came up to maybe his ankles or so, and was perhaps better described as a basin.

"If you've got clothes on underneath all that I suggest you ditch 'em sweetheart. Unless they need a bath too." He giggled and ran off to fetch the hose. When he came back be found his soon-to-be-not-a-hair-blob sitting in the basin (or at least he thought it was) with a typical shirt and pants uniform from Arkham flung carelessly on the floor a couple feet away.

The Joker looked around a bit before noticing a hook hanging from the ceiling. He looped the hose up through the hook and fixed it so that it would spray down on the little grey mass and ran back to turn it on. He returned again to see the water beginning to soak the mass of hair and wondered how heavy that hair was while wet.

Already the water running down the drain is grey and filled with filth. The Joker doesn't bother to remove his own clothes as he steps into the basin and kneels next to the grey-blob, pulling out a knife as he does so.

It's a sharp little kitchen blade, and as he grabs a bit of hair to saw through it before throwing it to the side. It lands with a splat on the floor. It's a funny sort of sound that makes him giggle, so he continues, if only to hear it again. He laughs louder and louder with every bit of skin that is revealed and soon becomes aware that his hair-blob-turning-person is a male.

As he continues, the little strange being pulls up his legs and buries his head in his knees, wrapping his hands round himself. He is shivering, and Joker supposes this is because the water is so cold, but he makes no effort to make the male more comfortable. He continues onward and frowns angrily as his work reveals a very thin sickly frame in which he can count every rib and the vertebrae of his companion's spine is well defined.

He recalled knocking a tray out of the male's hands, but did he ever actually eat? When was the last time his little strange one had been fed?

He cuts until the hair it a mess of soft fuzz on top of the males head. Even wet it seems to twist and spike and flip in every direction in an untamable sort of way. It comes down past the oddity's ears now and the Joker is conscious of the fact that the little male had continued to hide his face in his knees and so he has yet to see his face. He is also aware that his hair is now white like snow, rather than the grey mass it had appeared to be due to the excess of dirt.

"Look at me." He orders with a strained grin. He does not like that his little puzzle is so thin, and he especially doesn't like the fact that he cares enough not to like it in the first place. The little white-haired being shakes his head and the Joker growls. "Look at ME!" He snarls, and is surprised that the male doesn't even flinch. He does however, after a moment's hesitation, lift his head to look up at the Joker as ordered.

The Joker stares in shock, taking a step back before he can catch himself.

His little oddity is beautiful like an angel. Pale, unblemished skin is stretched a bit too tight over his cheekbones perhaps; making them stand out more than they should, but it does not steal from the teen's beauty. And he must be a teen, for his face is very young, but, there is a sense of age in his eyes that suggests he is older. Perhaps he is in his twenties then? Rather androgynous, in the right clothes he could be taken for being either gender.

His eyes are very large, too large on his small face, and are framed by lashes as snowy white as his hair. They are a strange sight. A bright purple flecked with little spots of green, and they reveal nothing in the way of the boy's emotions. His nose is small, and angular, a nice contrast to his large round eyes. His lips are a shade of pale pink, matching easily with the overall paleness of his skin, and like his nose they are small.

But that is not why the Joker stares.

No, it is what lies upon the boy's lips that have surprised him.

He tentatively reaches out a hand and touches them, the thick black thread feeling rough beneath his fingers; the dark color standing out starkly against the male's skin. Little scabs mar the skin where the tread meets it, and he doesn't think this is freshly done, but rather they are old wounds that tear open occasionally.

His eyes narrow after a moment and he nearly snarls. He had claimed this little puzzle as his companion. His possession. Someone had dared to hurt what was his. He cupped the male's cheek. He understood now at least. This explained why he was so thin, why he clearly didn't eat. It explained why the Joker had yet to hear him speak. It explained why he had been so against showing his face.

For someone, for whatever reason, had sewn his puzzle's lips shut.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

This was fun to write. I feel I should warn you right about now at the possibility of slash. Not guaranteed of course. There may be moments where it seems like it though, but for now there is not. I may or may not however pair our little former-hair-blob with a male, or a female, or I won't pair him up at all. Nothing in this story has been planned so I really don't know.

Reviews?


	5. Chapter 5

I give you, chapter four. It is short, just like its' predecessors, but I enjoyed writing it. Most likely because I really don't care at all for Harley Quinn.

Enjoy loves.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

Batman hunted desperately through Arkham's records.

The Joker had taken the John Doe patient. He couldn't understand why. There was one video record of the little male and him bumping into each other, but nothing more than that. Yet the Joker had had enough interest in him to take him.

Why?

He didn't understand why the Joker would take him. But then, he didn't particularly understand why the Joker did a lot of what he did. He hunted through the records to try and find more information on the John Doe.

But there was very little to be found. There were records of him being brought to Arkham by the usual officers who transferred people from Gotham prison to the Asylum. There were the usual notes about the doctors being informed of the patient's crime (supposedly he killed someone and drew pictures with their blood). But there was nothing from before that.

No records of the crime he was accused of committing. No records of an arrest. No police records of him at all.

As far as he can tell, the John Doe patient didn't exist until those officers brought him to Arkham.

With a growl, he looks down at the drawing that still sits on his desk. Looking at the doctor's records, he doesn't think that the male is entirely sane, but he does not think he is a danger to anyone either. He seems almost like a child in his nature.

His eyes narrow to slits behind the cowl.

He thinks it might be time to pay those officers a visit.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker sits in silence. A rare thing for him, and continues to run his fingers over the black threads sewn into his puzzle's lips. He had not cut them off as he had wanted, because when he had suggested doing so, a look of absolute terror had come over the young male's face.

He had been startled by how much he despised seeing such a look on his face. Usually he was quite happy with terrifying people, and enjoyed using their fears against them. But he does not want for his new little possession to fear. At least not for it to fear him, but then, it didn't really seem as though it was the Joker who he feared.

He smiles at him, receiving the same blank, but minutely curious look he has received every time he smiles at him.

His puzzle is like a child.

"Come on then sweetheart. We gotta get you dressed." He stands then, picking the thin male up out of the basin and sets him up on one of the sciencey-looking tables. The white-haired male swings his legs slightly at the Joker fetches the Arkham uniform from the floor.

He takes note that there are no underwear with the pants and shirt. He would like not to have to put this back onto the male, but he has nothing else for him at the moment, and so it will have to do. He also takes note that his puzzle apparently has no shame in regards to his own nudity, and makes no effort at all to cover himself.

"You'd walk around nude without a care wouldn't ya?" The little male only tilts his head at him in response. "Hands up." He orders. The puzzle does so, though the Joker frowns at the sight of the male's arms shaking. He is very weak. He slips the shirt onto him and pulls it down. It is very big on him, hanging off of one shoulder and coming down halfway to his knees. The pants are much smaller, and they slip onto him easily enough. He has to grab onto Joker when he slips off the table to get them over his bottom though.

"We need ta get some food into ya. Somehow."

The puzzle looks up at him with curious purple eyes. He is still holding onto him.

"You need a name too."

At this there is a tiny spark of excitement in those eyes, and he receives a tiny gentle smile that looks more suited to belonging to an angel than an Arkham patient even with the way it moves the crossed threads and makes them look like the macabre smile of something with sharp teeth.

"Hmmm… But what to call you?" He taps a finger to his lips. "How about snow? Your hair is white after all…" 'Snow' shook his head. "Hmm… How 'bout Loki? He had his lips sewn too." He knows as soon as 'Loki' pales (a great feet considering that his skin is nearly as white as his hair) that it is not a good idea. "So not Loki then… Hmm…"

He thinks for a few moments, the as-yet-unnamed puzzle looking up at him expectantly. "Why not… Lamb?" He receives a curious look in response, 'Lamb' no doubt wondering as to his reasoning. "Like that movie, Silence of the Lambs is it? You're always silent, so…" His reasoning sounds odd, and maybe not quite sound even to his own ears, but to his surprise the smile he gets in response for his choice is blinding in its' joy. He grins wickedly. "Lamb it is then."

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker trails silently into the pseudo-greenhouse, dragging Lamb along behind him by the wrist. His grip is tight, and maybe even a little harsh, but the white-haired-one doesn't seem to notice, and if he does then he doesn't care.

"Puddin'!" Harley, who had been sitting and chatting with Ivy, jumps to her feet and comes to embrace him. Before she reaches him he feels Lamb tense and so rather than indulge her he backslaps her hard across the face just as her fingers brush his purple coat. He sees Ivy's eyes narrow at him but the redhead does nothing more than bring her cup of tea back to her lips for another sip. Harley yelps at his blow and whimpers after she hits the ground. He feels Lamb relax again and chances a look at him.

The violet-eyed male is looking up at him with the same blank, childish face and curious eyes. He doesn't look upset, or at all concerned with what Joker's done: but as Harley stands up his eyes flicker to her and there is a sudden wariness in his expression, and he takes a step backwards. Well isn't that interesting? His new pet doesn't seem to like Harley very much.

"Oh? Who's this Mista' J?" She peeks around his torso to look at Lamb but is careful not to touch the Joker again. She knows that would not end well for her right now. "What's with his mouth? Awful funny lookin' ain't ya suga'?" Lamb's eyes darken in an emotion that is not quite anger, and they suddenly look just a little too bright; just a little too wet. Joker is only mildly surprised by the rage the suddenly envelops him as he sees something very dark, some nasty memory, flash across those purple eyes and he has moved his hand into a fist before he even realizes it.

That fist slams hard into Harley's face and he hears a nasty snapping sound that makes glee fill him. Good. She deserves the pain of a broken nose for her idiocy. He looks up at Ivy in a way that dares her to question his reaction, but the plant woman says and does nothing. By their angle to her, she was easily able to see the expression on Lamb's face and so there is understanding in her eyes.

The boy is his now. His possession to do with as he pleases. He belongs to the Joker just as Harley belongs to him, and no one gets to hurt his possessions but him. They don't even get to hurt each other. If someone (other than maybe the bat) ever hurt Harley he would kill them. Likewise, should anyone hurt his new pet; he will kill them as well. If they hurt each other, the responsible party will be punished.

It is his way, and Harley ought to have known by the way the Joker is keeping the little white-haired-one close that he belongs to the Joker. She knows the rules.

He steps over her without a word, dragging Lamb along with him. He pulls out a chair at the little iron garden table Ivy sits at and places the male into it. Lamb smiles at him as he pushes in the chair, and he smiles back in a strained sort of way when he realizes that Lamb's wrist is purple. Joker had held him harshly yes, but not so much that it should have been able to create a bruise. His new pet is weak and thin. Far too much so.

He sits down in the other seat and grabs the cup of tea there that was most likely Harley's, handing it to Lamb with a dark look and an animalistic grin that is an order to drink in and of itself. Lamb seems to have enough intelligence to understand this, and does exactly that. His hands shake a little, but the warm liquid is not hindered by the thread across his lips and he smiles at the Joker after a couple mouthfuls; clearly seeming to like it.

"I need some way to keep him alive without taking those off." The Joker is addressing Ivy now, and gesturing to Lamb's lips. He hears Harley whimper in the background as she begins to move off the ground but ignores her entirely. Ivy looks from him to Lamb and set her tea down.

"I think I can find something."

This makes his grin wider and he runs his tongue absently over his scars. Ivy may be nuttier than he is, but she's a decent scientist and knows her human biology as good as her plant biology. He is glad for this.

After all, it wouldn't do for his pet to die just yet now would it?

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

A little bit better of a look into how the Joker thinks of all this. I think.

I really don't like Harley. But all the same I would like to make something clear here. I don't at all condone spousal abuse. I absolutely abhor the thought of a man hitting a woman under any circumstances; especially if they are in a relationship. That said, this IS the Joker we're talking about. I remember watching Batman: The Animated Series as a kid and I can't put a number on how many times the cartoon showed the Joker abusing Harley.

Fun Fact: Did you know that the makers of that cartoon series created Harley as a means to make the Joker look straight? She was made only so that the show could become more 'appropriate' for children by not bringing up questions regarding the Joker's feelings towards the Batman. Especially since there is actually a few scenes in some of the comic that make it seem as though the Joker has slashy feelings towards the Batman; twisted feelings, but feelings all the same.

Like the scene where he talks about killing Batman and then sexually defiling his corpse.

Or that time the Batman visits him in Arkham and he essentially tells him he's in love with Batman.

Or that time some faceless person (who may or may not have been the bat himself) busts him out of Arkham and the Joker attempts to offer him gay sex as payment only for his helper to leave him leaning against a tree with his pants around his ankles.

He also uses a knife, which in the study of criminal minds is seen as a phallic symbol. Using a knife rather than a gun is viewed as being much more intimate, and many criminals who kill with knives are known to attain sexual gratification from it. This makes me wonder why in his more personal fights with the Batman, he almost always uses a knife.

There are more subtle things, but those are just the ones that merit interest.


	6. Chapter 6

Lamb looked on curiously as the pretty plant lady stuck a needle into his arm. It was filled with a white liquid that had a yellowish tinge to it. It didn't hurt. He was far too desensitized to pain for it to affect him, but he was curious about it. He wondered what was in the syringe as the substance filled his veins.

He wasn't worried though. The laughing man didn't seem worried. The wonderful laughing man who had taken him from the cold place with white walls and bars. Who had cleaned him and cut his hair. Who had given him a name.

A name.

It was a beautiful thing.

He had never had a name before. Not that he could ever remember anyways. It was so nice to have a name though. A thing that was his and his only that no one could ever take away from him.

A name.

His thoughts made him smile warmly at the laughing man; grotesque as the sight was when marred by the rough black threads.

But he would not think of those.

Never think of those.

The laughing man didn't know the reason for his smile, but he smiled back all the same. It was beautiful to Lamb. Wide and red, and stretched farther than it should he at the sides by thick scars, with too many teeth showing that were tinged yellow. He knew others would not find it beautiful. But he did. To him the laughing man was beautiful. Even with his frightening countenance and the make-up. Even with the way he would go so quickly from kind words mixed with crazed giggles and gentle fingers to dark looks and a rough animal voice mixed with harsh fists.

Fists that had not been used on him, but only so far on the red and black woman who made something under Lamb's skin crawl. There was something there that reminded him. Reminded him of where the thread came from. Reminded him of the one who stole his voice away.

But he would not think about that.

Never think about that.

Still. The laughing man was beautiful. He was beautiful because he was kind to Lamb. Because he was cruel, but never to Lamb. He was beautiful because he had saved Lamb. Saved him from the place with too many doctors and bright lights and nights when…

No, he wouldn't think about that either.

Never think about that.

He was beautiful because he saved Lamb and only asked in return that he may cut the hair that hid him and his threads from the world. That he drink nice tea that brought muddled memories of a place with warm people and many smiles and sweet, kind words to Lamb's mind. That he let the pretty plant lady stick him with needles that she said would make him stronger so that he wouldn't shake.

Such small prices to pay for this freedom.

Prices Lamb would pay willingly.

Because it was the laughing man who saved him, and the laughing man who asked these prices of him.

If only to make the laughing man smile at him, smiles that held no pity like the doctors, and no hate like the one who gave him the threads…

If only for those smiles, he would pay any price the laughing man asked of him.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

Pamela Isley was a very intelligent woman. Long before she abandoned her true name and became Poison Ivy, she was intelligent enough to make an opinion on a person only minutes after meeting them. There were some, of course, who it took her longer to gain a proper judgment of. But she managed it all the same.

Harley, for instance, was a very sweet girl with an unfortunate bout of insanity mixed with an entirely unhealthy obsession with the Joker.

The Joker himself was less a man and more a force of nature. He was unstoppable, uncontrollable, and without any real purpose except to cause chaos. He could not be stopped, not truly, only contained.

This new one though… Lamb, as Joker had called him, was odd. He seemed so very much like a child. There was a profound sense of innocence that clung to him, almost as though he had gone through life without experiencing any of the world's horrors.

And yet his lips were sewn shut by someone, and he could watch as the Joker knocked Harley around without batting an eye. That alone made it clear that he was… Unbalanced. Yet he wasn't dangerous. In his current physical state he was more likely to hurt himself than anyone else, and even if he was healed…

With those wide, childlike eyes, and those soft smiles, she couldn't see him hurting anyone. He was far from sane, but he was also harmless. Which of course begged the question as to what the Joker wanted with him? After all, the Joker didn't typically bother with others unless they were of some sort of use to him. But Lamb was not of any true use. He was, sweet though he may be, worthless to the Joker.

Yet he had captured the clown prince of crime's interest, and thus had become a possession of the man. Property, like a slave or pet, in much the same way that Harley was.

It was confusing, but Pamela had long since given up trying to understand the Joker.

So rather than question it, she simply did as was asked of her and put together a simple nutritional serum to keep the Joker's new pet alive. She would go out and get some things he could eat through the thread as well. Simple things like applesauce and soup, broth and various pastes.

She would do what she could to keep this strange child alive, if only so that the Joker would not kill her for her failure.

Besides, the plants seemed to like him, and that alone made him worth her time.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker grinned down at his little… minions.

They were many enough in number, a lot of them escaped patients of Arkham. Dressed up in normal clothing and faces hidden by four or five types of generic Halloween clown masks. They were pathetic, but they served their purposes, and they were either loyal to him, or terrified of him, enough to do whatever he asked of them.

"I, ah, need… A doctor."

There was muttering. One brave soul spoke out: "Are you sick boss?" Said soul met Lady Death with a bang from Joker's gun. He giggled delightedly to himself.

"Ah, no. Doc's not for me. But I do **need** one. A good one. Find one." The clowns muttered amongst themselves and shuffled around but otherwise did nothing. The Joker sighed in exacerbation and frowned. He introduced another of them to a bullet from his gun. "**NOW.**" He snarled.

They wisely scrambled to leave and run off to do his bidding. Good. They were learning.

He sighed to himself and looked down irritated at the two corpses leaking a pretty red all over his floors. Really. Were good henchmen too much to ask for?

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker hummed a pointless tune as he fiddled with Lamb's hair. Now that it was cut and cleaned it was surprisingly soft. Like rabbit's fur. Had he ever touched a rabbit? He couldn't remember.

He had managed to get his little pet to drink a few mouthfuls of chicken broth. He had wanted him to drink more but the male had already begun to look queasy and had looked from him to the broth mournfully; as though he wanted very much to do as Joker wished and was simply unable to. It was the puppy dog eyes that got to him. His little Lamb was simply too cute.

Now he sat behind the little white haired male playing with the soft fur-like hair atop his head as Lamb drew pictures. Harley had found him some paper and pencils when he had made motions with his hands to the effect of writing. She was not all that bright, but she was smart enough not to say a word about the thread on Lamb's lips again, or to even look in the Joker's direction then. He had grinned when she brought the paper at the sight of her face. The nose that was off center and nearly black, and the way the purple had creeped around both eyes; the dribble of dried blood escaping a split and swollen bottom lip.

She looked good in purple.

They had been here for a couple weeks now and had managed to create a routine of sorts. Joker was not one for routine when it came to his crimes, as he needed to remain unpredictable, but he didn't mind them within the comfort of his, ah, _home._

Lamb followed Joker everywhere, often literally clinging to his purple coat. Joker didn't usually like clingy, but he tolerated it because Lamb knew when to let go and give Joker space to… work… and because he didn't speak, he was very quiet. They ate breakfast together in the mornings away from Harley, and then he would follow Joker about as he schemed and planned his next crime.

In the afternoons they ate lunch and had tea with Harley and Ivy, and when Joker left to go back to his plans, Lamb stayed behind and Harley went with him. He had to show her some amount of attention after all. It wouldn't do for her to get too jealous and do something foolish. He wasn't sure what Lamb did with Ivy, but he didn't need to because the male would smile happily up at him, once so widely the wounds of his mouth split open and bled again, when he came back for him in the nights after dinner.

Dinners themselves were spent just with Harley, while Lamb ate with Ivy, and then afterwards he would drag Lamb off for quiet time. Often the male would draw and Joker would simply stick close, like tonight, though there had been a couple of nights where the Joker told Lamb stories and was rewarded with purple eyes looking at him with awe throughout his tales and then little muffled giggles which sounded warped through the threads.

Lamb slept in the greenhouse. Harley slept… Somewhere… And Joker slept in a little bed in one of the smaller buildings near the factory. He never allowed anyone to sleep near him. There was no telling who might try to stab him in his sleep. He smiled down gently at his little Lamb, the picture he was drawing appearing to be of one of Ivy's flowers. He had chosen to stop questioning the odd protective feelings that reared up when he was near Lamb. He had simply chosen to accept them, as it was not in his nature to care for the WHY behind things.

He was pleased to note that even now, Lamb had gained a bit of weight. He was still unhealthily thin, but he looked a little more like a person than a webbed skeleton. Now if his clowns could find a proper doctor they would be set. It was not in Ivy's expertise to set up things like physical therapy programs to help build up muscle. Much of Lamb's muscle had been lost through his starvation. It was why he was so very weak. His legs had grown stronger from following Joker around, but his arms still shook when he lifted anything or even tried to hold them above his head.

He wanted his Lamb to be strong and healthy. He wanted him well. Then he wanted him trained. Trained to protect himself. He could not always be around, and he would not have his pet be helpless when he was gone. He wanted him able to defend himself at the very least.

Hmm… Speaking of not being around…

It was about time he played with the bat wasn't it?

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

I have no comments on this chapter for whatever reason. I may or may not have tried tequila today so I may or may not be sober…

I plead the fifth my friends. I plead the fifth.


	7. Chapter 7

Ok so first off, I apologize.

Several days ago my computer broke down. I have lost a lot of my files, including the chapters of all the stories I was working on at the time. I plan to go back and keep writing, but right now we need a little break so that I may do so. I may not be able to ubdate anything for a couple of weeks, as there are many things aside from the stories that I have to worry about, but I promise I will update everything as soon as I am able.

Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello people! I'm back! Hehe.

Ok, so… I wasn't able to recover my lost documents… But everything is okay. Mostly.

The chapters for this story are always short, which is why this one is being updated first, but expect an update for The End of One Life sometime within the next few days.

Love you guys! Thank you all so much for the support!

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

The Joker laughed happily as the building on the horizon exploded.

The booming sounds likened to thunder mixed with the crumbling of brick and the screeching of metal was like a beautiful symphony. The music of destruction was punctuated by a chorus of wonderful screams and sounds of terror.

It was magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.

He punched a button and another building, more to the east of him now, followed the previous onto the jaws of death in a mighty and wrathful explosion. He cackled with joy, and pushed the next button.

This one did not explode. Ah. Well that was his cue to leave then.

With a grin still on his face, splattered with blood as it was from the unfortunate security guard of the empty building he had chosen to watch his masterpiece from, he rushed down the flights of stairs and skipped through the lobby of the building. There was a car outside; one of his clowns in the driver's seat.

This plan had been beautiful. Usually his plans involved coming face to face with the bat. He did it that way so as to taunt the man and tempt him into killing the Joker. The bat never took the bait though, and then he would end up in Arkham. He couldn't afford that yet though. Lamb wasn't ready to be left without him yet. He was too weak.

Thus his plan had involved taunting the bat from afar. He told him of a school with a bomb in it and gave him three possibilities along with a few hints. The bat would have to figure out which school held a bomb.

But the truth was that all three were rigged to blow. Not that the bat knew that. Well, NOW he did. The Joker giggled joyfully to himself as he slipped into the car. It was an old black thing, though he wasn't sure as to the make or model. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that it was rather plain and easily ignored. The windows were dark enough that no one within would be visible, and the particular clown he had in the driver's seat was one of his more competent minions who knew how to stay calm and obey traffic laws when they needed to remain unnoticed.

He sighed and smiled to himself, beginning to hum a song. He pulled out his handkerchief to clean and polish away at his knife, but he didn't bother with cleaning the blood from his face. It would dry on his skin slowly like mud on the back of a pig. He was so used to blood; he was more likely to be delighted by being covered in it than he was to be bothered.

He absentmindedly thought of Lamb. His clown's idea of a doctor involved dragging scarecrow in. That had been a problem. He scowled at the remembrance; the rage still fresh in his mind. He would need to punish the good doctor again when he got back.

Scarecrow was not insane like the rest of them. Not really. He was unhinged, certainly, but he was not out of his mind. He was a sadist in the darkest form, though his sadism only manifested itself in his delight in his fear toxins, and in the way he didn't seem to care at all about human emotion. Even the Joker could feel things for others. Those feelings were limited mostly to vague interest and possessiveness, but still.

Still, despite being a psychologist, the doctor had agreed to help. He knew enough about the human body to get them started at least. But then…

Then he had gone and tested his new batch of fear toxin on Lamb.

The Joker growled to himself. It had been a horrible way to learn that regardless of his silence and sewn lips, Lamb was not actually mute. He had screamed. The sound had been loud and harsh and had echoed off of the walls throughout the factory building.

Joker had heard them from a different room. At first the sound had made him smile and he had come wandering after the source in search of entertainment. But then he had opened the door the room Scarecrow had been using. He had seen Lamb curled into the corner covering his eyes and screaming.

Joker was the kind of man who could kill for sport, for fun, out of boredom, for whatever damned reason he could think of. But he was rarely a man to kill out of rage. He nearly had though. At the knowledge that it was Lamb curled there screeching in terror rather than some random low life off the street he had been filled with fury.

And there was nothing quite as terrifying as the Joker when he was pissed.

He hadn't killed Scarecrow. No. The doctor was far too valuable to just kill. But he had made him give Lamb the antidote before beating the doctor into a mess of wheezing purple bruises and bloody split skin. He had only stopped when Lamb had grabbed onto him.

Those purple eyes had looked up at him with fear and tears had fallen freely from them. The boy had made a sort of sobbing noise and clung to him. He had stopped him, not because he cared about the doctor's fate, but because he was scared and wanted the Joker to reassure him.

So the Joker did.

He had picked up Lamb's frail form and held him close and let him cry. It wasn't really his style to do something like that, but he had done it. It wasn't the first time he had done such a thing either. There had been a time or two in the past where Harley would have a nightmare and wake up crying. He had done the same for her then despite how tedious it seemed.

It didn't feel so tedious with Lamb though.

Lamb had had nightmares. He had woken up shaking only to calm within moments. He had seen the Joker beat, maim, torture, and kill right before his eyes without any semblance of fear. He may be weak physically, but mentally, emotionally, he was not. He was strong in that respect, and fearless.

So to see him terrified and crying was a shock to the Joker.

More than a shock, it was unbelievable. It made the Joker question what was terrible enough so as to make Lamb this afraid.

What was the boy who was unafraid of murder and mayhem afraid of?

Scarecrow was now chained up in one of the smaller buildings near the warehouse. Joker wouldn't kill the man, but he would give him many, many new scars.

He would suffer for hurting the Joker's little Lamb.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

Lamb smiled absently as the pretty plant lady taught him.

She had taught him so much. He knew all the names of her flowers. Even though they all had more than one name.

Like the pretty Angel's trumpet with its' trumpet shaped flowers. They were beautiful with their golds and pink tips. But its' other name was Brugmansia, and he was not allowed to eat it because it was bad.

The plant lady called it a hallucinogen, and said that it could kill him.

Not that he would ever eat it anyways.

It was too big to fit past the threads, and he couldn't bear the thought of cutting it up just to eat it. The flowers were too pretty for that.

A lot of the plant lady's plants could kill him.

Even the one she was teaching him about now. Oleander. Nerium oleander. The flowers came in white, red, pink, and even a light purple. They weren't as pretty as the Angel's trumpet. But they were more deadly.

He liked them though. He liked all the plants. But especially the special ones the plant lady had made that could think and move. They liked him too and would sometimes pick him up and play with him; throwing him in the air and catching him again or bending and acting as a swing for him.

They were very nice.

He looked up at the sound of metal slamming together and grinned, the threads stretching taut. That was the sound of the door in the corridor.

His laughing man was home.

**The_life_of_a_line_is_dull_and_grim.**

Batman angrily slammed his fist into the metal desk.

He glared up at the computer screen that couldn't seem to give him any answers. He had hunted down the officers that were mentioned in Arkham's report. The names and badge numbers were fake, but hunting back through the security footage had allowed him to run their faces against the GPD's database. He had matched the faces.

Only to learn both officers were dead.

They had both been killed on the same night, a week after bringing the John Doe to Arkham, in some back alley. They had been out on patrol at the time, and they were shot point-blank twice each; once in the chest, and the second time in the center of the head. It had rained that day, and any evidence that might have been present was washed away.

Which meant the Batman no longer had any leads available to him. He had no pictures or footage of the John Doe's face because of the hair, so he couldn't cross-check his appearance with the system. He had tried to scan the drawing for prints, only to come up empty. There were marks like being touched with gloves on the paper, but no fingerprints. It made no sense, because he had seen the John Doe's bare hands touch the paper, and yet he had left behind no fingerprints.

It was frustrating.

It seemed as though any effort to uncover the truth about the John Doe was met with a dead end. Then, on top of his lack of information, the Joker had struck again. The schools he had blown up had been mostly empty at the time, with the casualties in the single digits. It had been notably less horrifying than the Crown Prince of Crime's usual escapades. Not that the numbers mattered so much. People had still died.

What bothered Batman though was the way the Joker had played his game from afar. There was no direct physical confrontation with the man like he was typically prone to. He didn't understand why.

He needed to hunt the Joker down, and he needed to find the John Doe. He needed to find the truth.

But everywhere he looked, there were no leads to be seen.


End file.
